by Steve Berry
The man teetered, then collapsed to the floor.
Malone reached down and disarmed him.
Stephanie scooped a burning ember from the fire and turned to the guard a few feet away, whose attention was on the exploding lights.
“Hey,” she said.
The man turned. She lobbed the ember. The chunk of white-hot timber floated through the air and the guard reached out to deflect the projectile, but the ember struck him in the chest.
The man screamed and Stephanie slammed the flat side of the shovel into the brother’s face.
Malone saw Stephanie toss an ember toward the guard, then pound him with the shovel. His gaze then shot toward Cassiopeia as she calmly fired the air gun. She’d already ticked off one shot, as he saw only three men standing. One of the remaining guards reached for his thigh. Another jerked and groped at the back of his jacket.
Both collapsed to the ground.
The last of the short-hairs at the altar saw what was happening to his compatriots and whirled to face Cassiopeia, who was crouched thirty feet away, the air gun aimed directly at him.
The man leaped behind the altar support.
Her shot missed.
Malone knew she was out of darts. It would only be an instant before the brother fired.
He felt the gun in his hand. He hated to use it. The blast would certainly alert not only de Roquefort, but also the brothers outside. So he raced across the church, planted the palms of his hands on the altar support, and, as the brother came up, gun ready, he lunged and used his momentum to kick the brother into the floor.
“Not bad,” Cassiopeia said.
“I thought you said you didn’t miss.”
“He jumped.”
Cassiopeia and Stephanie were disarming the downed brothers. Henrik came close and asked, “You okay?”
“My reflexes haven’t had to do that in a while.”
“Good to know they still work.”
“How’d you do that with the lights?” Henrik asked.
Malone smiled. “Just upped the voltage. Works every time.” He scanned the church. Something was wrong. Why hadn’t any of the brothers outside reacted to the exploding lights? “We should be having company.”
Cassiopeia and Stephanie came close, guns in hand.
“Maybe they’re out in the ruins, toward the front,” Stephanie said.
He stared at the exit. “Or maybe they don’t exist.”
“I assure you, they existed,” a male voice said from outside the church.
A man slowly crept into view, his face shrouded in the shadows.
Malone raised his gun. “And you are?”
The man stopped near one of the fires. His gaze, from deep-set serious eyes, locked on Geoffrey’s sheathed corpse. “The master shot him?”
“With no remorse.”
The man’s face clinched tight and the lips mumbled something. A prayer? Then he said, “I’m chaplain of the Order. Brother Geoffrey called me, too, after he called the master. I came to prevent violence. But we were delayed in arriving.”
Malone lowered his gun. “You were part of whatever it was Geoffrey was doing?”
He nodded. “He didn’t want to contact de Roquefort, but he gave his word to the former master.” The tone was tender. “Now it seems he gave his life, too.”
Malone wanted to know, “What’s happening here?”
“I understand your frustration.”
“No, you don’t,” Henrik said. “That poor young man is dead.”
“And I grieve for him. He served this Order with great honor.”
“Calling de Roquefort was stupid,” Cassiopeia said. “He invited trouble.”
“In the final months of his life, our former master set into motion a complex chain of events. He spoke to me about what he planned. He told me who our seneschal was and why he’d taken him into the Order. He told me of the seneschal’s father and what lay ahead. So I pledged my obedience, as did brother Geoffrey. We knew what was happening. But the seneschal did not, nor did the seneschal know of our involvement. I was told not to become involved until brother Geoffrey requested my help.”
“Your master is below us with my son,” Stephanie said. “Cotton, we need to get down there.”
He heard the impatience in her voice.
“The seneschal and de Roquefort cannot coexist,” the chaplain said. “They’re opposite ends of a long spectrum. For the good of the brotherhood, only one of these men can survive. But my former master wondered if the seneschal could do it alone.” The chaplain stared at Stephanie. “Which is why you are here. He believed you’d bring the seneschal strength.”
Stephanie appeared not in the mood for mysticism. “My son could die thanks to this foolishness.”
“For centuries this Order survived through battle and conflict. That was our way. The former master simply forced a confrontation. He knew de Roquefort and the seneschal would war. But he wanted that war to count for something—to end with something. So he pointed them both toward the Great Devise. He knew it was out there, somewhere, but I doubt if he really believed either one of them would find it. He knew, though, that a conflict would erupt, and a winner would emerge. He also knew that if de Roquefort was the winner, he’d quickly alienate his allies, and he has. The deaths of two brothers weigh heavily on us. All agree there will be more deaths—”
“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “I’m going.”
The chaplain did not move. “The men outside have been subdued. Do what you must. There will be no more bloodshed up here.”
And Malone heard the words that the somber man had not spoken.
Below us, though, is altogether different.
SIXTY-FIVE
THE TESTIMONY OF SIMON
I have stayed silent, thinking it better for others to preserve a record. Yet none has come forward. So this has been written so that you will know what happened.
The man Jesus spent many years spreading his message throughout the lands of Judea and Galilee. I was the first of his followers, but our number grew since many believed his words possessed great meaning. We traveled with him, watching as he eased suffering, brought hope, and stirred salvation. He was always himself, no matter the day or event. If the masses lauded him, he faced them. When hostility surrounded him, he showed no rage or fear. What others thought of him, said, or did never affected him. He said once, “All of us bear God’s image, all are worthy to be loved, all can grow in the spirit of God.” I watched as he embraced lepers and the immoral. Women and children were precious to him. He showed me that all were worthy of love. He would say, “God is our father. He cares, loves, and forgives all. No sheep will ever be lost from that shepherd. Feel free to tell God all, for only in such openness can the heart gain peace.”
The man Jesus taught me to pray. He talked of God, the final judgment, and the end of time. I came to think that he could even control the wind and waves since he stood so afar above us. The religious elders taught that pain, sickness, and tragedy were God’s judgment and we should accept that wrath with the sorrow of a penitent. The man Jesus said that was wrong and offered the sick the courage to become well, the weak the ability to grow a strong spirit, and nonbelievers the chance to believe. The world seemed to part at his approach. The man Jesus possessed a purpose, he lived his life to fulfill that purpose, and that purpose was clear to those of us who followed him.
But in his travels the man Jesus made enemies. The elders found him a threat in that he offered different values, new rules, and threatened their authority. They worried that if the man Jesus was allowed to roam free and preach change, Rome could well tighten its grip and all would suffer, especially the high priest who served at Rome’s pleasure. So it happened that Jesus was arrested for blasphemy and Pilate decreed he should ascend the cross. I was there that day and Pilate drew no joy from the decision, but the elders demanded justice and Pilate could not deny them.
In Jerusalem the man Jesus and six others were taken to a plac
e on the hill and bound by thongs to the cross. Later in the day, the legs of three of the men were broken and they succumbed by nightfall. Two more died the next day. The man Jesus was allowed to linger until the third, when his legs were finally broken. I did not go to him while he suffered. I, and the others who followed him, hid away, afraid that we might be next. After he died, the man Jesus was left on his cross for six more days while birds picked his flesh. He was finally taken from the cross and dropped into a hole dug from the ground. I watched that happen, then fled Jerusalem by way of the desert, stopping in Bethany at the home of Mary called Magdalene and her sister, Martha. They had known the man Jesus and were saddened by his death. They were angry at me for not defending him, for not acknowledging him, for fleeing when he was suffering. I asked them what they would have had me do and their answer was clear. “Join him.” But that thought never occurred to me. Instead, to all who asked, I denied the man Jesus and all that he stood for. I left their home, returning days later to Galilee and the comfort of that which I knew.
Two who had traveled with the man Jesus, James and John, also returned to Galilee. Together we shared our grief over the loss of the man Jesus and resumed our life as fishermen. The darkness we all felt consumed us and time did not ease our pain. As we fished on the Sea of Galilee we talked of the man Jesus and all that he did and all that we witnessed. It was on the lake, years ago, that we first met him as he taught from our boat. His memory seemed everywhere upon the waters, which made our grief even harder to escape. One night, as a storm swirled across the lake and we sat on shore eating bread and fish, I thought I saw the man Jesus upon the mist. But when I waded out I knew that the vision was only in my mind. Every morning we broke bread and ate fish. Remembering what the man Jesus once did, one of us would bless the bread and offer it up in praise of God. This act made us all feel better. One day John commented that the broken bread was so like the broken body of the man Jesus. After that, we all started to associate the bread with the body.
Four months passed and one day James reminded us that the Torah proclaimed that one hung upon a tree is accursed. I told him that could not be true of the man Jesus. That was the first time any of us ever questioned the ancient words. They simply could not apply to one so good as the man Jesus. How would a scribe from long ago know that all who were hung upon a tree were accursed. He could not. In a battle between the man Jesus and the ancient words, the man Jesus was the victor.
Our grief continued to torment us. The man Jesus was gone. His voice was silent. The elders survived and their message lived. Not because they were right, but simply because they were alive and speaking. The elders had triumphed over the man Jesus. But how could something so good be wrong? Why would God allow such good to disappear?
Summer ended and the feast of the Tabernacle came, which was a time to celebrate the joy of the harvest. We thought it safe to travel to Jerusalem and take part. Once there, during the procession to the altar, it was read from the Psalms that the Messiah shall not die, but shall live and recount the deeds of the Lord. One of the elders proclaimed that though the Lord has chastened the Messiah sorely, He has not given him over unto death. But rather, the stone that the builders rejected has become the head of the corner. In the Temple we listened to readings from Zechariah, which told that one day the Lord would come and living waters would flow from Jerusalem and the Lord would become king over all the earth. Then one evening I came upon another reading from Zechariah. He spoke of a pouring out from the House of David and of a spirit of compassion and supplication. It was said that when we look on him whom they have pierced, we shall mourn for him as one weeps over a firstborn.
Listening, I thought of the man Jesus and what happened to him. The reader seemed to speak directly to me when he spoke of God’s plan to strike the shepherd so that the sheep may scatter. At that moment a love took hold of me that would not let go. That night I journeyed outside Jerusalem to the spot where the Romans had buried the man Jesus. I knelt above his mortal remains and wondered how a simple fisherman could be the source of all truth. The high priest and scribes had judged the man Jesus a fraud. But I knew they were wrong. God did not require obedience to ancient laws in order to achieve salvation. God’s love was boundless. The man Jesus had many times said that, and in accepting his death with great courage and dignity, the man Jesus had given one final lesson to us all. In ending life we find life. Loving is to be loved.
All doubt left me. Grief vanished. Confusion became clarity. The man Jesus was not dead. He was alive. Resurrected within me was the risen Lord. I felt his presence as clearly as when he once stood beside me. I recalled what he said to me many times. “Simon, if you love me you will find my sheep.” I finally knew that loving as he loved will allow anyone to know the Lord. Doing as he did will allow us all to know the Lord. Living as he lived is the way to salvation. God had come from heaven to dwell within the man Jesus and through his deeds and words the Lord became known. The message was clear. Care for the needy, comfort the distressed, befriend the rejected. Do those things and the Lord will be pleased. God took the man Jesus’s life so that we could see. I was merely the first to accept that truth. The task became clear. The message must live through me and others who likewise believe.
When I told John and James of my vision they saw, too. Before we left Jerusalem, we returned to the place of my vision and dug from the earth the remains of the man Jesus. We took him with us and laid him in a cave. We returned the next year and gathered his bones. Then I wrote this account which I placed with the man Jesus, for together they are the Word.
SIXTY-SIX
Mark was both confused and amazed. He knew Simon.
He’d was called first Cephas in Aramaic, then Petros, rock, in Greek. Eventually he became Peter and the Gospels proclaimed that Christ said, Upon this rock I shall build my church.
The testimony was the first ancient account he’d ever read that made sense. No supernatural events or miraculous apparitions. No actions contrary to history or logic. No inconsistent details that cast doubt on credibility. Just the testimony by a simple fisherman of how he’d borne witness to a great man, one whose good works and kind words lived on after his death, enough to inspire him to continue the cause.
Simon certainly did not possess the intellect or ability to fashion the type of elaborate religious ideas that would come much later. His understanding was confined to the man Jesus, whom he knew, and whom God had reclaimed through a violent death. In order to know God, to be a part of Him, it was clear to Simon that he must emulate the man Jesus. The message could only live if he, and others after him, breathed life into it. In that simple way, death could not contain the man Jesus. A resurrection would occur. Not literal, but spiritual. And within the mind of Simon, the man Jesus had arisen—he lived again—and from that singular beginning, during an autumn night six months after the man Jesus was executed, the Christian Church was born.
“Those arrogant assholes,” de Roquefort muttered. “With their grand churches and theologies. Every bit of it is wrong.”
“No, it’s not.”
“How can you say that? There’s no elaborate crucifixion, no empty tomb, no angels announcing the risen Christ. That’s fiction, created by men for their own benefit. This testimony here has meaning. It all started with one man realizing something in his mind. Our Order was wiped from the face of the earth, our brothers tortured and murdered, in the name of the so-called resurrected Christ.”
“The effect is the same. The Church was born.”
“Do you think for one minute the Church would have flourished if its entire theology was based on the personal revelation of one simple man? How many converts do you think it would have obtained?”
“But that’s exactly what happened. Jesus was an ordinary man.”
“Who was elevated to the status of a god by later men. And if anyone challenged that determination, they were deemed a heretic and burned at the stake. The Cathars were wiped from the face of the eart
h right here in the Pyrénées for not believing.”
“Those early Church fathers did what they did. They had to embellish in order to survive.”
“You condone what they did?”
“It’s done.”
“And we can undo it.”
A thought occurred to him. “Saunière surely read this.”
“And told no one.”
“That’s right. Even he saw the futility of it.”
“He told no one because he would have lost his private treasure trove. He had no honor. He was a thief.”
“Perhaps. But the information obviously affected him. He left so many clues in his church. He was a learned man and could read Latin. If he found this, which I’m sure he did, he understood it. Yet he placed it back in its hiding place and locked the gate when he left.” He stared down into the ossuary. Was he looking at the bones of the man Jesus? A wave a sadness swept through him as he realized all that remained of his father were bones, too.
He locked his gaze on de Roquefort and asked what he truly wanted to know. “Did you kill my father?”
Malone watched as Stephanie hustled toward the ladder, a gun from one of the guards in her hand. “Going somewhere?”
“He may hate my guts, but he’s still my son.”
He understood she had to go, but she wasn’t going alone. “I’m coming, too.”
“I prefer to do this alone.”
“I don’t give a damn what you prefer. I’m coming.”
“I am, too,” Cassiopeia said.
Henrik grabbed her arm. “No. Let them do it. They need to resolve this.”
“Resolve what?” Cassiopeia demanded.
The chaplain stepped forward. “The seneschal and the master must challenge each other. His mother was involved for a reason. Let her be. Her destiny is below with them.”
Stephanie disappeared down the ladder and Malone watched from above as she hopped to one side, avoiding the pit. He then followed her down, lamp in one hand, gun in the other.